


Incorrigible

by GloriaMundi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Prison, Community: au_bingo, Gen, Historical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-24
Updated: 2011-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some time after the events of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/164975">Partisan</a>, Arthur and Eames are reunited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Incorrigible

Arthur was weak from months of prison rations, feverish from a mild dose of flu, and experiencing blurred vision in one eye due to the attentions of some overzealous guards. He'd managed to retain his dignity during the icy shower and subsequent delousing that'd been his welcome to the castle, but his reserves were running low. So, when the man on the other bed said, "Fancy seeing _you_ here!", Arthur could only muster a wall-eyed stare and a non-committal grunt.

"Good lord, you're a mess," said his companion, sitting up and turning his face towards Arthur's. The guards had left without bothering to introduce Arthur's new roommate -- ha, thought Arthur, as if it's a boarding-school instead of a prison for enemy officers -- and Arthur wasn't feeling especially friendly. On the other hand, there was something faintly familiar about the man's voice: that upper-class English drawl, with just a hint of something --

"Captain Eames, Special Operations," said the man, swinging himself to his feet. "And you're Arthur Arceneau: we met in '42."

"In the autumn," said Arthur, and was a little ashamed by the warmth of his own smile. He hadn't heard a friendly voice since they'd shot --

"Mmm," said Eames. "It was bloody cold, now that I do remember."

Arthur sat down on the bare mattress of his own bed, next to the small pile of bedding, and blinked at Eames. He remembered a great deal more than the weather about that night: well, he remembered how much heat they'd generated between them, literally and figuratively. From the intensity of Eames' gaze, he remembered it too.

"Quite a turn-up for the books," Eames carried on gamely, "us ending up in the same room here."

"Obviously," said Arthur, trying not to laugh because if he started he might not stop. "Obviously, we're both extremely lucky men."

Eames did laugh. "At least we're alive, even if we're locked up in Jerry's most impregnable fortress. But -- Arthur, you look done in. Let's get you comfortable, shall we?"

"There's no --"

"Nonsense," said Eames firmly. "I owe you one. Well, more than one." His smile twisted with sheer devilry, and Arthur found himself grinning back.

The door, incredibly, was unlocked. ("Nowhere to run to," said Eames. "I'll take you round to meet the chaps once you're feeling more like yourself.") Eames disappeared, and returned before Arthur'd even dozed off, bearing -- even more incredibly -- a teapot and two chipped cups.

"God bless the Red Cross," he intoned, pouring Arthur a cup and dumping in sugar. Arthur sat up, propped himself against the wall behind the bed, and took the proffered tea. It tasted disgusting, powdery and stale, but Arthur could feel warmth spreading through him.

"You made it to Lille?" he asked Eames once he'd drained his cup to the gritty dregs.

"I did," said Eames, settling himself next to Arthur on the stained mattress. "And thence to London, and back to Brittany -- Caen -- and … well, it all went rather pear-shaped after that. Compeigne, Buchenwald --"

"You were in Buchenwald?" interrupted Arthur. "So was I, last spring."

"I must've just missed you," said Eames. "But I didn't much care for it, and duty demanded that I take my leave. You know how it is."

"I'm impressed," said Arthur. "It's not the easiest place to escape."

"No," said Eames. "But you must have managed it too. Otherwise they wouldn't have brought you here. For the most incorrigible only, I'm assured."

"This place is supposed to be inescapable," said Arthur.

"Funny you should say that," said Eames, with a wink. "I seem to recall you had a good eye for paperwork. Care to see some of my drawings?"

"You did these?" said Arthur after while, looking up from the sheaf of papers that Eames had produced from somewhere beneath his mattress.

Eames looked down, almost shy, but there was a distinct smugness in the set of his shoulders. "Documentation's something of a speciality with me."

Discretion was paramount. "Is there," said Arthur, leaning closer to Eames, "some kind of a plan?"

"You could say that," said Eames, equally softly but with laughter in his voice.

"Perhaps I could be of assistance," said Arthur, holding Eames' gaze.

"I'm absolutely certain of it," murmured Eames. His breath was comfortingly warm on Arthur's skin. "In fact, I think you might be just --"

"Eames, you dog! Keeping the new boy to yourself!" came a jovial voice with a strong English accent. "Sorry not to greet you personally," the newcomer -- a thin, red-haired fellow with a raw pink scar slashed across his face -- said to Arthur, striding into the small room and coming to an abrupt halt in front of the bed. "I'm Squadron Leader Kingsley -- Bill -- and I'll be your Escape Officer here. Er, assuming you've the balls for an escape, that is." His laugh was slightly nervous. Arthur realised that he probably should smile.

"I have," he said. "And maybe I can lend a hand. I'm Arthur Arceneau; Captain, FFI."

"Any useful skills?" said Kingsley, without acknowledgement of Arthur's rank. Arthur let his smile fade.

"Arthur's invaluable," drawled Eames, still unnervingly close beside him. "I shouldn't be here now if it weren't for him."

"Then I'm sure we're all very grateful," snapped Kingsley, scowling at Eames. Arthur suppressed a laugh. "I'll leave you two to catch up, then. Seven o'clock in the mess?" This last to Eames.

"Seven o'clock it is," said Eames.

Kingsley did not close the door behind him, but that was probably for the best: Arthur wanted nothing more, at this moment, than to reacquaint himself with Eames in all the most primal, basic ways. But a high-security prison was hardly the place, at least not before lights-out.

"Let's meet up once we're out of here," he murmured to Eames: and Eames nudged his shoulder against Arthur's, and smiled, and said, "After the war."

"Yes," said Arthur. "After the war."

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> Rooted in popular depictions of Colditz Castle, though I haven't actually watched the 2005 miniseries with Tom Hardy. YET.


End file.
